56 
THE LANGUAGE OF FLOWERS. 
HYACINTHUS. 
KEATS. 
Or they might watch the quoit-pitchers, intent 
On either side, pitying the sad death 
Of Hyacinthus, when the cruel breath 
Of Zephyr slew him; Zephyr penitent, 
Who now, ere Phoebus mounts the firmament, 
Fondles the flower amid the sobbing rain. 
HYACINTH. 
EBENEZER ELLIOTT. 
Shade-loving Hyacinth ! thou comest again, 
And thy rich odours seem to swell the flow 
Of the lark’s song, the redbreast’s lonely strain, 
And the stream’s tune—best sung where wildflowers 
blow— 
And ever sweetest where the sweetest grow. 
